There in the End
by certainlyjim
Summary: prompt link inside: k/s "Time travel de-aged I want Kirk to somehow be thrown back in time and to Vulcan, but in the process is de-aged into a small child. Can be when Spock was older before leaving Vulcan. Jim still remembers being Captain, the method of time travel back to past and returning to present is up to you."
1. Chapter 1

A/N: amanda isnt in this part, but she'll be in the next; un'beta'd

kirk's the only one to get de-aged folks

_**KIRK IS THE ONLY ONE DE-AGED**_

* * *

"Thank you, lieutenant." Kirk says, taking his hand off the transporter room's comm and straightening.

The enterprise is orbiting F'kintu, a planet that has just become eligible to try for entry into the federation, and because he's captaining the big and mighty flagship, he gets to double talk with politicians for two weeks. He doesn't sigh because, at least it's an upgrade from cargo shuttling across the quadrant, which Starfleet has been doing for half a year. He's not much worried about finally taking off the training wheels, but he knows Starfleet's suffering a terrible hard on from how well behaved their crisis promoted cadet is doing, and that their breathing hot down his neck, monitoring his every command decision.

He adjusts his phaser belt, clipping it and unclipping it, as he orders the ensign in charge of beam down to ready the coordinates. He's not gonna be the first down there, no way in hell Spock would've even allowed it; the first ambassadorial unit had beamed down planet-side fifteen minutes ago. He's got a phaser because he wants one, and because he wants one. F'kintu has a thing about high ranking people meeting, and had requested that Enterprise's highest ranking individual beam down alone; separate from any other beam down parties. To an undisclosed location in their sprawling capital, Ind'iuta, where it lays butting up against the planets only mountain range.

Spock had spent hours, trying to get the location, the way of meeting, anything, to change so the Kirk didn't have to go alone. and it hadn't worked, and Spock had gotten all stiff necked and broken backed about it, refusing to make eye contact, while Kirk'd snickered and played it down, really trying to warm him up, and get him to unbreak his spine. Which is why Spock is manning the bridge, and Kirk is walking onto the transport pad, miffed that he has no goodbye party to see him off for twelve boring hours. The only concession that Spock had been able to make the F'kintu while shoving irrefutable logic in their faces was that it 'is unsafe for a federation captain to venture unarmed into an unknown situation'. That little piece had ruffled the F'kintu enough, and still refusing to tell the Spock where exactly the meet up was that, they had ceded to allowing him to have a weapon— which Kirk would've snuck anyway, which Spock was not unawares, and so had avoided a political fuck up. A fuck up Kirk would not have incised at all.

The ensign looks up, "They've sent the coordinates, Captain."

Kirk nods, "Good; energize."

The transporter pad lights up underneath him, and Kirk feels the beam prickle and stretch his skin, the light gets stronger, he hears the ensign say something, he blinks, the dark of his eyelids floating with spots of light. The light vanishes, he feels like he gets kicked in the stomach, and maybe he bends over withe force of that, he can't tell he's mid beam, can he even move mid beam? He stumbles out, now there's something to stumble out to, his eyes snap open and he falls on his face. Well, he's not dead, the hot sand burning his cheek and drying his mouth annoys him into a sitting position.

"What the hell." he says, kneeling before he stands.

This is not F'kintu anymore. He twists in all directions, mouth gaping disbelief; iron rusted sand stretches from horizon to horizon, mini tornadoes trip off in the distance, connecting the red sand to the absolutely arid sunset-red sky. Dull orange clouds sulk high in the sky, not doing a thing to cover the fucking hot sun, burning him to sweat. He swipes his forehead, and wipes it on his shirt— except he's ass nude, not even socks, as he scrunches his toes in the scorching sand.

Also, his carpet is gone, and if weren't baking outside his wee would have goose-bumps. Not even a treasure trail.

"What the fu—"

He looks up in time to start running really fast in the opposite direction of the giant dinosaur loping at him. His arms pump, and his legs strain, sliding across hot sand and stuttering over sharp hidden rock. Shit-shit-shit, he slams against to stop, breath hurting out, and he glances behind and,

"Shit-shit-shit- Enterprise! Do you copy, Enterprise!" he shouts out, more for collecting himself than actually thinking anyone can hear without a damn comm unit.

The thing is gaining, and he jumps back, readies to jump and haul himself up the cliff that isn't going to corner him for the dinosaur. He runs, fingers gouging into the rock, and he curses as he slides instead of going the hell up. He scrambles and rolls up and over gasping hot air. He turns his head and shit-shit-shit— he pushes up, fingers dripping blood and sprints fast. The dinosaur has jumped the cliff. He's wheezing now, and his legs are numb, he can't feel his hands, white spots his visions— he is not going to pass out here, dammit.

His head is bowed he's gonna pass out, he's not gonna pass out— someone shouts, he stutters to a jog. He doesn't have enough air to ask, 'what?' as his head turns to the right and a lean figure is stark against the red sands. He hears them shout again— he can't— it's not standard— the spots in his eyes are huge now.

"Young one, get down!"

He understands that, he— how can he do that, he's— the ground rushes past him and his bare back blunt against a cliff he hadn't seen. The sudden agony is quick, and he's leaning against a small hill, jagged on the one side he'd tipped over. He lays there spread eagle, feet all tingly, then he stumbles to his feet, and climbs. He's just about to the top, and he sees the stranger, spear the dinosaur in the chest. The loose sand blows up with the wind and then settles. He wants a spear. he pulls over onto all fours and stays there gasping air that's too thin and hot, his chest constricts, and he groans, falling to rest his head on his left forearm.

"—it— shi…t— shit—…hit…" he gasps, sucking up sand and spitting it out, without actually trying to stop sucking up the sand.

The scare of the fall had sucked all his adrenaline away and his body aches so bad he doesn't wanna move any part of himself. Over his gasps for air, he hears faint puffs of footsteps. He hears them stop, but they don't say anything, he slumps against his arm, and manages to turn his head. he stares, it not the same person he'd seen kill the dinosaur, it's a little kid, chillin' there staring right back at him, dark brown eyes, wide and curious, and not embarrassed to have been caught staring. The kids wearing a long cloak-thing, a brown dress-looking thing, and a hood covering their head.

Their still staring at each other when the person he'd seen joins them, holding the spear in their hand, before sticking it in the ground and crouching in front of Jim.

He speaks, well, Jim thinks he's a he, his voice is deep enough to be a man's— but his quiet words are too quick, and Jim can pick enough to know they're not standard either. He wants to know where the hell his universal translator went. The man waits for him respond, and when he doesn't a faint frown line appears between his brows. Jim sits up, ass hitting his heels and stares at the man's eyebrows. He ignores the man's faint stillness from his sudden movement and gapes as he still gasps for breath. He glances at the kid, and yes— they both have the same brows. Okay. These guys are Vulcans, or Romulans— he'd rather deal with peaceful Vulcans, so he's sticking with the Vulcan idea.

"Where am I." he says, wiping a shaking hand over his mouth.

"Where Cheleb-khor ends and The Forge begins, young one." the Vulcan answers, in heavily accented standard.

"Um, no… I mean where, what planet." Jim says.

There is no possible way that he is on New Vulcan; the Enterprise isn't even in alpha qua—

"Vulcan."

Wait. "How the hell am I on New Vulcan— that doesn't even make sense."

The Vulcan says nothing, but the kid next to him takes a step closer, "You are mistaken, this planet is not named 'New Vulcan', but Vulcan. I suggest you remedy your obvious lack in astronomical knowledge."

Jim stares at the kid, his hand curl on his thighs, "Kid…"

The older Vulcan shifts towards the kid, "V'ar'el, please."

The kid, V'ar'el, stiffens and lowers his glare to the ground, but not before, "I am obviously older than the human child; therefore, _you_ should not call me as such."

Jim looks around, and doesn't see a human kid, "What human kid?"

He sees the kid's brow rise, and looks at the older Vulcan who is now totally studying him.

He doesn't like this, he doesn't like this. Something's not right; he should be on a nice tropical planet, in the beta quadrant. Now, he's on New Vulcan— Vulcan, but that's not possible. He looks past the Vulcan content with studying him, to the vast red sands, and bare ridges, rising to the empty skies; high bridges, leaning down to touch the hard ground, the dry wind sucking his sweat away, and his thundering heart. He tries to swallow, his throat catches. This is just like—

He tastes the desert on his tongue, remembers the first time he tasted the memory of the Vulcan-That-Was. His eyes widen, and he— he wants to stand, he wants to run. Wants to just, doesn't want this.

He forces himself to turn back to the adult Vulcan, "Wh— what's the star. Stardate. Uh please."

He just barely sees the kid frown out of the corner of his eye, and the adult, "The current stardate is 2254."

He wants to fall, inside he falls; someone pulls the carpet out from under him, he's falling. He starts breathing again, squeezing air out of tight lips, refusing to lose it in front of _these_ Vulcans. His hands are fists on his thighs, his eyes close against him, trying to breathe, just breathe. These people, these innocent people. This planet; had these two made it, had he saved them? Or— he cringes into himself, hands on the sand in front of him, twisting and serrating in his grip.

Someone is near him, his eyes snap open and he flinches away, fists rising— it's the adult, hands up in peaceful assurance.

"You are unwell." it's not a question.

No he's not. He's not. He needs his ship, he need his crew. He can't, not with this. These Vulcan, are they even alive, is he talking to ghosts. He can't.

"I'm— I'm fine, fine." he says, is voice is fine, doesn't reflect him, only shows what he wants. He—, "Thanks for saving my ass."

He grins up at the Vulcan. Up at him. Jim looks down at his tiny hands, trembling on his bare thighs, his hairless legs, and hairless self. He reaches up and rubs his face, his smooth face, young, not scar less. His grin, he thinks, cracks, unhinges, by the Vulcan's sudden twitch closer, like he's about to fall apart. Falls apart. He's the kid, he's a kid.

Past all that hot guilt, he'd forgotten. He doesn't know how everything had superseded it. 2254; he's not captain of a starship, doesn't have a First Officer, but has already been on his first starship since his birth. He knows his body's too young to be twenty-something, and he knows this is the body he'd had when he'd gone to starve and die like an animal. Knows, because, his body doesn't have the scars he'd inflicted, that he'd refused to be healed.

Nothing makes sense. This— it wouldn't be so hard. If he had a body older than this. He doesn't want these memories to leach back into forethought.

"..ung one, young one."

Jim starts, blinking dry eyes.

"What do you call yourself?" the adult Vulcan asks.

He's about to— but he can't, he can't say what his name is, they'd look it up. They'd find him not a child in the Federation database; a repeat offender with a motorcycle to his name. Too many questions, too many he can't answer, won't. Shouldn't.

"Tiberius." he says, everyone knows his name, always forgets what it stands for. He likes it like that because he hates his middle name; old and out of date, a generation out of date.

The Vulcan's eyes narrow slightly, "Tiberius, may I question the logic of being unattended on The Forge?'

Why is he here, where are his parents; he doesn't have any, he doesn't know why, he shouldn't be, can't be here, it's impossible. He needs to sound confident. Confident in a younger body, he doesn't want suspicion more.

"Uhm, I— Spock! Spock, I was visiting him— Spock.'

Spock's on Vulcan-That-Was, of course he is, nowhere else for him to be. He hasn't gone for Starfleet yet, too early for that— in a lull between schooling, right? If jim remembers right.

Jim's smile slips right off his face, why'd he say that, shit, that's the last person he wants to see. he would've been fine with strangers, would've found a way back to his future, without messing with Spock's past. Spock would know the moment he sees Jim that something's wrong, somewhere in the universe, wait, but why? Spock doesn't know him yet, can't read him like a damn open book.

The Vulcan cocks his head, "Spock?"

"Yeah, Spock, you know him? Nice guy, bit prissy sometimes." Jim says, trying to give the guileless blues he knows kick people in the gut.

The Vulcan blinks at the 'prissy', "He is not well known to me; however, I do know of Spock son of Sarek."

"Great." Jim says, and jumps to his feet. "Uh, can you take me back to his, uhm, house?"

The Vulcan twitches, looking up at him, "Please refrain from aggravating you injuries, Tiberius."

Oh yeah, he'd got the shit beat out of him by a planet, he lifts his hand, and there isn't anything, not tears, only sand covered blood on smooth skin. his hands go to his back, he feels blood flake off, but there's nothing there.

"Um. I don't have any?" he's hitting a brick wall so hard and fast he doesn't wanna think about, he knows he had cuts all down his arms, scratches killing his fingers, lacerations stretching his back.

"You, do not?"

"This," Jim says, spreading his hands out in front of himself, "it's just me getting all sweaty, and your red dirt sticking everywhere."

He grins down at the assuredly unconvinced Vulcan, and drops his hands. He'd rolled around in the stuff long enough for it to stick everywhere, his explanation makes sense.

"You are lying." it's the kid, and he's still glaring, even though Vulcans don't glare.

Okay, so it was a thin excuse, but dammit, "Am not."

Jim doesn't stick his tongue, out but the action sure as hell colors his petulant tone, obviously enough for an ugly green to muddy the kids cheeks.

Jim isn't blinking and the kid is right up in his face, mouth thin and straining. Well, the kid is actually older than him, because he's forced to lift his chin to meet their eyes.

Jim is an adult, which doesn't mean he's mature enough to be one. He shuffles close, because he can.

he feels a hot warmth over his chest and glances down, sees two hands; one hovering over him, the other on the kid. The adult Vulcan is standing to their side, a disapproving tilt to him.

"It is unwise to goad one another, and wise to step back from conflict." the Vulcan says, and tightens his grip on the kid, and forcibly tugs him back, "Tiberius, may ask after your clothes?"

"My, uh, clothes? That's a good question, uhm," Jim smooth's his hand down his chest, and doesn't know why he's bare assed either.

He looks back up at the Vulcan, who is untying his top and shedding it, leaving his pale chest dry in the sun, "It is no consequence, Tiberius, you may make use of this."

He hands Jim the shirt, and Jim slips it on, it reaches his knees. And holy shit is it a furnace, the Vulcan's body heat radiates out, sweat soaking out more than it had been. Jim wants to give the thing back, but that'd be impolite, probably.

"Thanks— what's your name anyway?"

"I am V'arokh son of S'irikh," he says, and gestures to the kid, "This is V'ar'el, my brother."

* * *

A/N: prompt at: st-xi-kink-meme dot livejournal dot com/15838 dot html?thread=14948062#t14948062


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: un'beta'd

_**KIRK IS THE ONLY ONE DE-AGED**_

* * *

V'arokh takes him safely from the apparently not safe forge, and makes sure to walk between Jim and his brother. There's not much talk, Vulcan's suck at small talk, so Jim's fine— okay, he's not fine running circles in his head like a caged dog. He wants something to distract him. There's too much stuff, things that don't make sense, and the full brunt of Vulcan's heat isn't making him anymore focused. They've been walking for a long time, to him, and he's just finished completing an insane idea that this is all fake, the sun beating down, his beading sweat, the glares sent his way from V'ar'el, the pleasant but really shouldn't be numbness to his feet from the torched sand. Being in a body, where his only hair is on his head— which seals the realness to whatever the fuck is going on.

He scratches his neck, "Hey, V'arokh, I can't remember what's the place Spock's house is at. Do you?"

Yes, he's degenerated his grammar even more, the better to fool. And honestly, he doesn't have a fuckin' clue where they've been going for the past whatever. He doesn't have a chrono, and Vulcan-that-was' sun moves way faster than Earth's, he has no idea, maybe half an hour.

"The Ambassador and his wife reside within the city of Shi'kahr. I do not know that he stays with them; however, they will have the ability to direct you to him." V'arokh says, stumbling over the word 'wife', like that's not what he wanted to say.

Jim nods, and then wonders why he hasn't passed out by now. He's puttering about on a planet that can't exist, that has a climate less than benign to human physiology, a constant layer of slick sweat that dries hot in the wind, and still sweats more. He should've passed out by now, but he's not even thirsty, his tongue isn't swollen, his teeth aren't parched, like he's been sipping a canteen every time he even has the thought that he's thirsty.

He's seen the glances from both Vulcan's, the way V'arokh has steadily gotten closer, just waiting for him keel over. Because he should've, but he's not. Jim frowns, but doesn't cross his arms, Vulcan's are too damn observant for their own good.

They come to rising hill, and cresting, Jim sees the muted outlines of minimalistic buildings, rising from the sands, and huge stalactites— because what can he call them, even if that's not what they are, hanging against gravity. From his position, the hanging rocks are faded brown, the red sky stark behind them, and he sees thick waves of sand cascade— probably more like avalanche down and obscure his clear view of the city.

He tastes the desert again, and this isn't New Vulcan. What would Spock give to be here; what would he give for Spock to be here. No.

Shi'kahr is nice in the way that twenty first century modern art is nice; he doesn't understand it, but sometimes it's calming, and dull.

They get closer and the winds die down a bit, and it's quiet, like there's no city, no people, no hover cars; like they're still in the middle of the desert. It reminds him how silent Spock can be, the sneaky bastard. He should ask Spock if all Vulcan's are sneaky, 'cause they probably are.

They're passing other Vulcan's, now, who are ignoring them, but everybody is also ignoring everybody. Jim's the only one ogling other people, and sometimes an eyebrow will rise in his direction as a Vulcan passes him, onto wherever. They pass a first building of Shi'kahr, and the tight corners, twist the lazy wind into snappy coils of wind, which blows Jim's shirt-dress up before he can push it down. V'ar'el is staring at him. Jim feels hot in the face, and other places— that had just slapped a view Vulcan prudes in the face. So, he actually doesn't know if all Vulcan's are prudes, maybe that was a Spock thing, but generalizing makes him feel better. He glares at V'ar'el and jogs to catch up to V'arokh who hadn't stopped. Jim's holding onto his clothes now.

Jim sniffs, and his mouth waters, he smells food— or something that smells really good. He takes a step and V'arokh's hand stops him.

"Tiberius, you will find sustenance within the Ambassador's lodgings." he says, and steers Jim away from the open air market.

Who knew Vulcan's had markets. Outdoor markets, with food, and stalls of cloth, even livestock. The flow of people isn't loud, like it'd be in Earth, its orderly and sedate, quiet conversations rising and falling.

"But I—" he wants to go look at that stuff. See what can't be seen anymore. Wants more than tasting memories, that don't belong to him, to remember this place by.

"Come."

Jim comes. He doesn't want to, he's not actually a kid, he's a grown ass man, and he isn't going to pout about this.

They pass the meat of the city, and some hulking architecture, that doesn't protrude and obtuse, but lifts mighty into the red sky. These Vulcan's may be about logic and not emotions, but their imposed order does know how to make an atmosphere.

Of course, he logically asks, "What's up with that tall building?"

V'ar'el sniffs at him, somehow they'd ended up side by side, "The Vulcan Science Academy, if you must know."

The kid is pissing him off. Jim doesn't ask any more questions, because V'arokh isn't answering, with his it-is-not-logical-to-run-however-I-am-in-a-hurry stride that sweeps past the academy and further into the city. Jim sidles away from Vulcan-dick, and then wonders why V'arokh is in a hurry. He never did ask what they were doing in the middle of nowhere. But he's also promised himself no more question time with dick-squirt over here. He stops playing catch-up with V'arokh because, he suddenly remembers that Vulcan's are _pacifists_, they don't _kill_ things. Maybe he missed the official announcement, but he officially doesn't what the hell's going on. Okay, maybe he's never really known what's going on, but he doesn't like when these things happen, dammit.

Way up-head, he sees V'arokh enter a building, not as tall as the Vulcan school thing, but way taller than any of the other totally less important buildings that surround it. Then he sees dick-squirt sneak— okay he can't really apply 'sneaking' to a Vulcan— in, and then realizes dick-squirt isn't with him, because he's over _there_. Jim dashes towards them, trying not to red-rover someone, and makes it, hand reaching up to lean on the door sill and puffing air. This air is just too thin for him. Inside the door he leans on is wide courtyard, hard earth, covered in meandering sand, and sparse desert brush, stone benches are here and there, some in shade, others heating in the sun. He coulda guessed that an Ambassador was rich, but flaunting it— okay, maybe it wasn't flaunting but it still reminds him of the sparkly uptight palaces and alien Edens the Enterprise has come across.

He noses in, looking down in effort to not step on some special flower, rare whatever, and have severely not-frowning Vulcan's, judging him for stepping on their flowers. He can't see the two brothers, but there's a big arched door further in, and he's guessing that's where they ran off too.

He picks his way over, and wonders if this is where Spock grew up; it's not what he remembers, but it's what V'arokh said. He glances up, and it's really not what he remembers of remembering; there's no giant mountain in the distance, sharp against the red sky, no open desert, but a quiet city suburb. He wonders if there's a patio out back, because his day was spent the second he was done not dying, and he wants to lie down and pass out for a while. He pulls at his shirt-dress, airing himself out and stops at the arch. The doors are open, and the house is stone through and through, moderate design drawing his attention to the walls, and the deep brown plants pushed up against more arched doorways. The hall isn't long, and he sees the ending a ways down; snooty-face is lingering near one of the closer doors to the right.

Jim walks over to him, and is ignored, "Who's he talking to?"

V'arokh is standing, spear straight in one hand, the other curled behind his back. He's facing away from the doorway, and standing in front of a desk? Yeah, it's a desk; with someone sitting in it. Jim can't see who, V'arokh is standing right in the way.

Little-shit shifts slightly, hands resting behind his back, murmurs something. Jim does not purse his lips, at the purposeful use of Vulcan. He should've paid attention to Uhura's lessons, maybe even Spock's. He'd never tell them that.

The person sitting at the desk has a soft voice, not Vulcan soft, more a soft that could start yelling and be very loud about it. he can't hear what their talking about, probably him, so he stares at the shitty little kid— Jim really loves all these perfect names for him— until he starts to twitch, and fidget; crossing his arms, and shuffling his feet.

"Say it again, kid." in standard is a given, and the kid gives him a big not-frown.

"I do not wish to." he replies, staring steadily forward.

"Of all the—"

"Tiberius, attend." V'arokh says, and V'arokh is turned towards him, a _look_ on him that makes Jim think he's done an illogic thing and he-must-go-into-a-time-out-to-think-about-what-he' s-done. It reminds him of Spock, and he looks away from V'arokh and beats a hasty jog to his side. V'arokh says something in Vulcan, and steps back.

Jim looks up, "Shit."

His whisper is loud in the silent room, his foot slides back, he wants back, to back off from this. There're only two Vulcan's here; there're two humans. She looks just like he remembers, not old yet, but wrinkles there when she smiles, liquid grey eyes that are bright, a patience in her that isn't from the Vulcan she'd married. She's sitting there, hands flat on the desk, papers not scattered— ordered around the edges, and she's smiling at him.

"Tiberius, Lady Amanda, mother of Spock." he hears V'arokh say.

Yeah, mother of Spock, gone mother of Spock, not alive. He can feel his chest hurt, wants to gasp, the airs too thin, too hot. He feels the scrap of bodiless sand against the palms of his hands, when blood still flowed from his jarring sprint. Sprinting? Yeah, this wasn't his time, it was a past— he feels himself tremble, wants to fall and moan. It's a painful reminder but— she's just the same. He remembers unshed tears, tears that couldn't be shed.

He retakes his retreated step, "I— Lady Aman, Amanda.'

He realizes he's never said her name, always was it Spock's mom, Mrs. Grayson. He stands at parade rest.

"Whatever information you need, I'll try to and give it to you."

Her brows rise, "Why Tiberius, you get to the point don't you?"

He's reminded of Spock again, "Yes, ma'am."

She laughs, and waves him closer. He glances at V'arokh who is very serious, but she tells Jim to ignore him. He rounds the desk, shoulders getting stiff. He sees are lilac dress and thick shoes, and then he's looking up at her. Her smile fades as he is regarded, but her eyes are still warm, and there again he's reminded of Spock. Spock who would give anything to see his dead mother again.

She leans on her knees, chin resting on a hand, "Tiberius, V'arokh tells me your're friends with Spock."

It's not a question, and he struggles to keep her eye, "Ahm, yes. I am."

"Spock has never mentioned you."

Because she knows Spock doesn't have much of friends on Vulcan, and Spock's never learned how to small talk, which is how to make friends. He remembers the sting of skinned knuckles, and green blood. He glances over at V'arokh, who is staring right back, and squeezes his fists behind his back.

"Can— is it all right to give you what you want to know in less company?"

She too glances over at V'arokh, Jim doesn't look over, and keeps staring straight ahead, after a moment, "Yes, it would."

She stands, and Jim steps back, "Join me in the rock garden, Tiberius?'

They exit the stone house, out to a small garden of raked sand, desert flowers bloom on the few rocks that throw shadows over the rivulets of sand. Spock's mom— his mother still alive, how's he gonna— looks out over the garden, sunlight fading her features. She isn't rounding on him, asking him to answer for his bullshit, and he doesn't wanna be the one to break the ice. He looks down at his dirty feet, foot-shaped sweat stains ending where he stands. He looks back up, over the low stone surrounding the garden, Vulcan-that-was' sun is beginning to set, a mellow red burn that colors things on fire.

He whips around to face her, does not scrunch his shoulders, and, "Ever heard of time travel?"

A bunch of hours later Jim is sitting on a giant dry fountain, his feet spread wide, arms resting on his thighs. The fountain is in a corner of the courtyard of Lady Amanda's house, sand and debris cluttering it. The sun isn't up as high, and the long shadows are a lazy smudge over everything. Jim musses his hair, and keeps ignoring the Vulcan statue he can feel staring him down. explaining why she should trust him was hard, explaining he was from the future and making her see he wasn't full of shit was hard, being in this body and explaining why he's not a fuckin' lunatic— while in a body that doesn't lend credit— is being on a diplomatic landing-party where the other party has just drawn weapons, and he's stuck with his hand down his pants.

He grimaces, nudges some dirt with his toes. The two brothers had left, with the sun still high, and in a hurry. He'd watched them snake through the market, and speck off into the distant desert. He hadn't even gotten to say fuck-off, hope-I-never-see-you-again, to that shitty little Vulcan.

The reason he's still bored-as-shit, and here, not in some Vulcan-dungeon, is because he's got more than his childish good looks— okay, no, it's because he's good under rapid fire question taking and pressure. Lady Amanda isn't a stay at home mom with no pedigree; she's a crafty little professional academic, who wears misconceptions like an apron. Jim feels he just got out of a command track final, a minute before time was up, and half his sheet is empty. Maybe less than half, but the grade wasn't on completion; it was getting every point on the questions he did answer.

Jim's happy he wasn't sent to the future— Lady Amanda won't be there, he squeezes his fists and leans over his knees. he's not going to do this, he's not— thrusters in reverse— he opens his eyes, and— wonders if Spock ever sat here in the dry fountain, maybe he hadn't sat in it like him, maybe he'd sat all proper and watched the hazy air blur everything in the sun. Maybe he'd meditated next to it, Jim looks down to the side of the fountain, on a tiny bit of mat that blended into the red sand. Jim remembers bursting into Spock's quarters one time, and finds him sitting on that mat. His brown eyes closed, and his face is blank, like he's not home, and he breathes deep, and Jim closes in. Jim doesn't like the blank of his face, but figures he's meditating— Vulcan's do that for health reasons, Spock told him, but Jim wants the intricacies of his expressions, the rainbow of his brown eyes, that are so human. He doesn't like the blank, slack of his face, and he reaches out—

"—iberius, dinner has been set, if you are hungry." Lady Amanda says, and he sees her long shadow, over the wall to the side of him.

He looks towards her, and she waves him to come. He spins around, and hops off the fountain ledge, and his Vulcan statue begins to move too. He'd gained some of her trust, but less enough, to call a guard for him— 'just someone to watch over you, hon'. He'd tried to wrangle a name out, but damn, Vulcan's have a stubborn streak. He pauses at the entry way, cool stone and sand dust under his feet and looks around the dining room. It's spacious, and bare just like the rest of what he's seen, but the heavy wafting of food smell, settles in his gut, and his mouth waters. The last thing he'd eaten was replicated toast from the ships mess; Bones wouldn't let him eat anything dammit, and whatever was cooling on the table wasn't replicated toast. He walks in and eases onto the bench besides the head of the table, where Lady Amanda has set herself up. He can hear her in the next room, thinks she's pouring something. He glances at the table and brings his fingers to it, there's three empty glasses. He inhales again, and the smell of food this close is even better, and his finger twitch on the table. Lady Amanda walks in and he snatches his hands away, flattening them his thighs.

"Ah, Tiberius, I hope you like flavored water?' she asks, and pours a drink into his empty cup.

"Uh— yes ma'am." being polite is good, keep being polite. He wants some Jack, water isn't gonna cut his day.

She pours herself the same water— into her glass, why does he get a damn cup. Setting the pitcher down her sits down at the front of the table, and smooths her dress down.

Then she focuses on him, parks her elbows on the table, leans into her crossed hands, "No need to be so polite, Tiberius, call me Amanda."

No. No way in hell, "I— ah. Aman— can I just call you Mrs. Grayson. Please." he says, hands gripping tight his shirt-dress.

Spock never even called her by name; it was always, 'mother'. Never, anything else, so why would he be different.

Her brow rises and she straightens, "Of course. However, Tiberius, after you are finished, you should bath; if V'arokh's tale is to be believed."

Jim fights the urge to sniff himself, and his nose starts itching, "Yes, ma'am, but I don—"

He turns towards the entry way because he hears someone talking. There's another Vulcan talking to his statue Vulcan, they're in the shade of the setting sun and he can't see. The Vulcan walks in, and Jim stops. So much younger, so much innocence, so much unabashed curiosity. Spock pauses at the foot of the table, glances at him. There's no recognition there, and Jim gets cold. He shouldn't of expected anything more, from a younger Spock, who doesn't know him. It still unbalances him.

"Mother." Spock says.

And he's beaming with love and warmth, from the single word. There's none of the familiar tightness near the eyes, no stiffness of his shoulders, no despair hiding behind a Vulcan's stoicism.

Spock moves over to his mother, brown robes blowing, he stops in front of Jim on the other side of the table, "I apologize, Mother, my research kept me over my designated departure time."

He's not wearing science blues, and he's not as beefy as Jim's Spock is. And Jim can't look away; he wants this to be his Spock, the Spock who knows him.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Spock,' she says, and laughs.

Spock's brows draw together, and he not-frowns, "But, Mother, it is not beneficial to arrive late to an affair of my own making.'

And Jim can tell that he's upset, not just by his tone, but by his face. He is frowning. Jim has never seen him _frown_. His hands crumple his shirt-dress under the table, a few years couldn't 've changed him so much. He breathes, trying for deep, getting shallow, and still can't look away. Is this Spock with his planet, with his bonds, not a witness to systematic genocide? If Jim could've fired the Romulan guns faster; if he'd made Olson _listen_. Then would his Spock be like this, less fragmented with himself, no schism between what he thinks it is to be Vulcan, and human.

"Yes?"

Jim starts, and, "What?"

Spock is facing him, arms resting behind him, "You addressed me by name; yet, I do not know yours."

Jim's mouth goes dry, as Spock whole focus comes to him, "I— I'm Tiberius."

'I'm your friend.'

* * *

A/N: ya'll can consider this after the events of stxii  
i havnt decided whether to make it so, but to consider it as would add more emotional filling


	3. Chapter 3

a/n: ubeta'd

_**KIRK IS THE ONLY ONE DE-AGED**_

* * *

Jim can't stop staring at him.

"Indeed." Spock says, with his familiar brow rising, "I was informed earlier of a situation."

His tone is so cool, clinical, and he turns back to his mother. Jim's eyes bounce to Mrs. Grayson— she couldn't've told, because she knows all about time and space and interfering with stuff. Jim doesn't wanna be down on his luck the one time he'd a sore spot for it, and wants to trust her. To make the decisions that she thinks are good decisions— he needs to trust her on this. Jim remembers to nod, because Spock is still eying him, waiting for a response.

"Spock, sit; sit, the sun has gone, it's time to eat." Mrs. Grayson says, pats the table once.

Spock tucks his robes, and sits across from Jim. He begins talking with his mother, voices mixing and rising, and Jim sort of listens, trying not to poke at his food. Mrs. Grayson doesn't try to pull him talking, but she isn't totally cold-shouldering like Spock is— his cluelessness of interacting with actual people isn't a new thing.

Jim pokes some more at his food, it's a pasty texture thing— it looks like mashed potatoes, and doesn't taste it. And it's the main dish, because it's on the biggest dish-bowl, with a smaller plate to the side holding green stuff that he thinks is salad, with chunks of pale cheese on it. The center piece of the meal is a sliced bread loaf that looks so plain and normal that Jim just wants that. Some nice warm butter and turkey gravy soaking right in would be the best. Jim nips at the mashed potatoes again, and really wants some nice Earth cookin'.

His eyes jerk up from the loaf to Spock's, because Spock would be staring at him staring at bread, being rude and not eating his mom's cooking. Spock begins to say something.

"—no, nothing's wrong— it's good. Uh, but what is it?" Jim says, holds up his spoon, that blobs the mashed potatoes down all kinds of rude in the total absence of talking.

Spock answers in Vulcan, and Jim is still holding up his empty spoon.

"Spock_h_." and Jim glances over at Mrs. Grayson.

The way she'd said Spock's name was harsh, sharper, and maybe not with the letters of standard. Spock's name was hot in Vulcan.

Spock blinks at her, says something in Vulcan, and then, "It is _balkra_ made of _fori_."

He stops, looks down at his is ballkraa and Jim sees his brows furrow, "I believe the correct standard term is… cahsehrohl…vegitaarriyan."

He looks back up, and it's not a question, but the question is there.

"Veggie casserole?" Jim says, and actually puts his spoon in his mouth this time.

He gets a blank look, "I… affirmative, Tiberius."

Jim bites down hard on his spoon. Spock with a heavy accent, and Spock saying his middle name— shit. He is _not_ going to blush.

"How do ya' know my name?" he spears a hunk of soft cheese from the maybe salad and eats it.

Spock nods towards his mother, "I was made aware of your claims to my person, and as such mother thought it prudent to make known your name— of which you claimed ownership, upon my arrival."

Oh, yeah, and Jim has no comeback, "Uh."

He turns to Mrs. Grayson, who's already turned toward him, "Do not worry, I also made it known, that you have _my_ trust."

Jim's fast heart careens to a steady crash, and he rests the spoon on the table, "So, you know how—"

"He doesn't."

"I do not."

At the same time. He looks between them, "Okay."

He picks his spoon back up and scratches it against the plate— picks up the dirty stone and grinds the flowers he found earlier into mush against the flat rock. Tommy is at the front of the cave, squatting over lil' Beth, trying to make her get some water. It's dirty water, but it's still water. Jim looks back down and whips his thin fingers over stem juice, he licks his finger and it's sour. He knows Kevin is somewhere near, but he can't remember what Kevin told him. The rock falls from his numb hands, and he pulls himself up by the cave wall.

He wavers over to the two kids, and squats with Tommy, face still streaked with old sobs, lips as cracked as Jim's. He settles his hand on Tommy's shoulder that's too boney, and asks if lil' Beth took any at all. Tommy won't look at him, just shakes his head. Jim tells him to suck on the rest of rag water himself. Tommy looks up then, his eyes dull— sharp too, and he starts sucking the rag soaked with dirty water. Jim looks down at lil' Beth, pets her cheek and smooths his thumb across her cheek. She's so small, her blond, hair all messed, dirt smudged everywhere— not all of its dirt. She moves against his hand, and he shh's her, pets her more, before her close call with conscious fades away, and she isn't moving anymore. lil' Beth is getting too lil', and Jim hasn't been able to find a good source for food in days. The forests are too dangerous, guards' yells echoing everywhere, systematically searching nook n' crannies. They haven't made it to the hills yet; it's only a matter of time. He feels a cold hand on his shoulder he looks up— it not Kevin, its Amir', he's clutching some pine cones. He pulls on the cave wall again and faces him. Knows pine cones won't be on the hills, knows he went to forest. Tries not yelling at him for going to the forests, tells him only he n' Kevin can go. Because, please, it's not safe for him, don't do it again, please. lil' Beth needs him, fadin' away without him, Jim n' Tommy can't do medical stuff, Amir's mom was a nurse. Please don't go again. Amir' doesn't cry anymore, maybe can't, saw his mom get dragged away, but he stares at him like he don't understand, and only nods when Jim reaches out to shake his attention.

He gives him the two pine cones and squats where he'd been, pettin' lil' Beth and humming song under his breathe. Tommy has fallen back, restin' against the cave wall, suckin' mindlessly, eyes all dull; saw his pa get dragged. Jim didn't. Jim didn't see his uncle n' aunt get dragged, they were called, called to the big town square right when twilight strikes, and you can't see a foot in front or back. the whole place was called— only half show, work n' all that. Jim's uncle n' aunt weren't working— lucky them, they'd used to say, more time to annoy ol' Jimmy boy.

Jim turns to face out the cave, takes a step, and wants to know because he doesn't, where Kevin is. Kevin's an idiot, and nev—

"—o finished, Tiberius?" Mrs. Grayson says, leaning towards him, her plates empty.

His food is half gone, his spoon rest between his loose fingers, and he wonders if they can hear how loud his heart is. lil' Beth would've loved the casserole, smooshed it between her tiny fingers, and spread it all over the place, making a face at the slight sourness of it.

"Yeah… I'm full." he says, lets his spoon leave his fingers, moves his hands from the table, "I forgot to say that V'arokh got me some snacks from the market."

He tries to smile, lift his lips, doesn't really work, "Sorry, 'bout that."

Mrs. Grayson still stares at him— reminds him of when Amir' caught him stealing fresh bread from the bakers. He turns away to Spock, who's finishing up his salad, wiping his face with a napkin. Spock looks up too, eyes flicker between them.

"Alright." Mrs. Grayson says, and pushes herself up.

Jim looks from her to the food, back to her, "You're not going to throw this away, right? c— 'cause if your, than I'm still hungry."

Jim stiffens because it's Spock who answers, "Negative."

Like he wants to say 'no', his word is real slow and soft, like going up to a wild dog, "They will be leftovers for a later meal."

Jim's fingers relax over the edge of the table, where he'd white knuckled, he takes them away from the table again, "Oh, that's good, that's good.'

He's slipping, knows they can tell, not acting normal, and needs some space. Forethought getting all confused. Try to breathe.

"May I take your left overs, Tiberius?" Mrs. Grayson says, she's standing to the side of him, her hand resting on his shoulder.

He looks up at her, "Ah, yeah."

She takes, he watches her disappear into where she got the water pitcher from. Spock is still here, at the table, elbows on the table.

"Your mom, said I should take a bath," he says, leaning until his chest bumps the edge of the table, "Do you know where the bathroom is?"

Spock stares at him, "I do. Exiting this room, it will be located to the immediate left… Tiberius."

Jim looks back from turning around on the bench, "Yeah?"

"Are you well?"

Jim grins, fists hidden from view by the table, "Fine, yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"You were uncharacteristically quiet for the remainder of the meal— for a human child." his heads tilts, and he continues staring Jim down.

"Not all human kids are talky Mc-talk-talk, Spock."

"I see." Spock says, his stare totally blanko.

He loves Spock clueless face, just like he loved Tommy's stupid aggressive-fight-me face.

Jim levies off the bench his legs give out and he grasps at the bench, still warm from him. His right arm strains to unbend on the bench, to not fall, and he gasps, rubbing his thigh with his left.

"Tiberius?" he hears Spock say.

Jim looks up, over the table and Spock is standing, leaning over the table to see him.

"It's nothing, just stiff muscles from running; it's fine."

His fingers dig into the bench the way Kevin's dug into tree bark when soldiers came through forest. He pushes up, and smiles at Spock, who sort-of-frowns right back. He straightens and lifts his chin to where Spock said the bathroom was.

"Imma go get clean, Spock, if that's okay?"

Spock is still standing, but is picking up his empty plates, "It is."

Spock walks around the table, going to the kitchen, and pauses next to Jim. Jim looks past him and walks away, to the solitude of the bathroom, because he needs to be alone— he's not keeping together, he's not going to answer questions. He makes his shoulders stay loose, can feel Spock staring at him, methodically picking apart his behavior. He makes it to the doorway and passes through, and he hears the soft whoosh of Spock's robes as he finally turns and leaves, stops questing after him.

Jim stays by the door, his small shadow, long from the light of the dining room behind, small shadow rumpled by creek rocks and moonlight, as he sticks dirty fingers into clear water.

His bare heel hits back at the wall, he's stepped back into the wall, and his head thuds up against the wall— there's no bright spots of sucking air exploding, just black dark on his shut eyes. He stays there, listening to Spock and Mrs. Grayson cleaning up in the kitchen, fingers running over the smooth tree trunk next to Kevin's, watching the guards stomp all over, flattening dull grass and squishing pale flowers. The guards haven't learned to look up yet, dogging on under and past him n' Kevin up in the tree, hard sticky sap clenching their fingers and stiffening their dirty hair. Jim pulls his finger apart and licks at the sap— its sweet, coats his dry tongue, like it'll leave a bad aftertaste. Jim opens his eyes, swaying away from the wall, and goes to the bathroom. His left arm rises, trailing his palm over the wall.

He comes to one of those potted plants, tan leaves, brown in the dark; sand dirty, smooth when he pokes his fingers in it. He looks up to the dark doorway— it's locked open, and he can see the night lit outlines of a window, spilling in over tile.

His fingers drag in the sand, as he moves closer to the door, "Lights forty percent."

The wash of light and his eyes flinch closed, his fingers slid out of the pot and he feels sand sliding down them at his side. The bathroom is big, like the place he's standing in front of is the shoe room, and the risen floor beyond is where the actual bathroom begins. It's bigger than the shower stall he and Spock share, more lived in, personalized, warmer— maybe that's because Vulcan-that-was is so warm. He steps from the front room, and the tiles of the bathroom are cool and slick under his feet. To his right is an actual basket— woven basket, holding a slouching towel. He runs his hand over it and it's just on the far side of rough, and thick. Further in to his right is the shower, bruised looking in the dark light, open enough to create its own shadows. He picks up his shirt-dress and plops it down behind him. He walks to the shower, and peers in, there's a dial further— because of course it's a walk-in— and the head gleams from the window-light.

He glances back at the door, it's still locked open, "Door, unlock."

The door isn't the door to close; a closer door swooshes closed, catching his clothes and swinging them around on the floor. he starts to breathe again, takes his hand off the shower wall, feels the blood rush back in. he goes to the door and it swooshes open, drags his clothes again, before he yanks the shirt-dress out of reach. He drops it again.

"Door, lock." he says, half turns, before, "Who has authorization to open you?"

The computer echoes quiet around the closed off space, only Mrs. Grayson, and Spock, and Ambassador Sarek can override his command.

He stands there; maybe he wants to hack the computer, so nobody can override his lock command. He sees the wall hatch, where wires are, it's doable— why shit on good will? Keep the trust, and he keeps his life under his own control for a while longer. It's a semblance, but its keeping him tied down, something to reel him in when he hacks into the security at the abandoned house, with all the windows firm and unbroken. The cast red light bloodies his dancing fingers, and then they turn blue like a dead body. The door next to him staggers open. There's gotta be food here.

Jim walks back to the shower and steps in, a slot on the wall opens and there's a body towel there. He takes it, stands in the middle of the shower. The shower is deep, a walk-in shower. He presses his palm to the wall sensor, it lights up pale blue, washing over him, and he touches next to it, the shower runs down on him, weighing his hair pasty, sand getting in his eyes. He ducks his head to rub at his eyes, sees the blood rivulet-ing from his small feet, mixing with flowing mud. It's raining, the forest bowed under the heavy rain, his arm hurts, it's bleeding red down and that's where the blood in the mud is from. But it's not all his blood, Kevin is splattered against plump and bloated corpses, and his voice can't be heard over the pouring rain in Jim's ears, whooshing out everything. The soldiers hadn't moved the bodies, let them spoil in the sun, leak bad over the ground, make it so the river wasn't drinkable. Jim pulls Kevin away, drags his skin and bones under an eave, Kevin slobbers everywhere, sharp eyes dead. Jim punches him, his blood painting Kevin's face, tells him to stop, get in this house and look for food, he knows it's bad, just go look, Kevin go look. Tells him to hurry, the rains gonna stop soon, can't be here when it does.

Jim scrubs his arm with the towel, rinsing sand and blood. He drops the towel, and palms the wall again; a tiny tube pops out and squirts soap into his hand. The wash isn't as sterilizing as the stuff he gets on the Enterprise, and it suds up real quick. He stops breathing through his nose when the scent of it hits him— it's pungent, and sweet and holy shit it's too damn much. He gags, keeping dinner down long enough to finish.

He's out the shower, fresh sweat mixing with dripping water, puddling at his feet. staggering to the sink he bears down, gagging bile, trying to keep his food down because he don't know when he's gonna find more. But no— it's the sick stench of a hospital, overbearing in its intensity to kid the senses that there aren't dead bloated bodies just steps away. Lots of people rushing all over, he doesn't know where Kevin is. doesn't know here Amir' is, Lil', lil' Beth, Tommy. It's too crowded, too loud, he doesn't know here they are; can't breathe up from the cloy—needs to leave, find them, get away, adults.

Jim looks up— into the mirror, and he stares back at himself from the confines of small guest quarters, on board a thrumming starship, he's pulling at his long hair— it's been cleaned. Maybe when the chubby doctor had made him pass out— not pass out… hypo-sprayed him to compliance, because he wasn't being compliant. Because they wouldn't let him _leave_. He drops his hair, and nudges at the thing on his hand— fluids and nutrients the doctor said, can't eat solids yet, won't risk it— relapse.

Jim tears away from the reflection, barrels towards the locked door. He steadies in front of it, chest gasping, and fists at sides. It doesn't make sense. The years don't match, he shouldn't be so young, should be older, past all this shit. He punches the door, uncurls his fist, and leans into the door. Every second time he sees his body he can't— it floods him, twists everything, his perception of who he is, when he is— he's not big enough. Why can't he be big enough, his small hands, skinny legs, smooth face. His body.

All alone, don't depend on anyone, can't— but Spock's here, but he's not his Spock, doesn't know him— still all alone.

He remembers of remembering, the emotion of loneliness, the gaping stretch, left dead, dark, not bright and thriving. How overcoming the depression only because of not just himself. Jim feels this, no crew to steady him, no Enterprise to call him, no Spock to calm him.

He straightens, "Door, unlock.'

And the door swooshes open, pin-wheeling warm flows of steam past and out. He steps out, and too his right, on the low shelf is another weaved basket; instead of food, he's hungry for, there's a padd resting on folded clothes. That's right, he hadn't any clothes. He frowns, should've asked for some, made someone go out of their way, he doesn't like owing. He reaches out and taps the screen, pale light washes the small entrance, and a simple message is read there.

He lifts the padd off the clothes, and picks up the tan shirt. His lips twitch, almost a smile, Mrs. Grayson even sized the clothes to him. He slips on the thick shirt, thinks why does it have to be so thick he's gonna sweat his ass off. Unfolds the thick pants, he needs some, his are all ripped, its cold during the night. But he's not gonna give 'em to himself, he's gonna push them on Lil, she's been sogging through with the dress she'd worn when they'd met in an empty cellar. He stuffs the find in his bag, hopes it doesn't get wet, because it's pouring again. Never stops, maybe it does, but no one can stay awake long enough to figure.

Jim picks the padd back up and fingers through it, the next page is a map to his bedroom, marked with a bright gold star and animated streamers bursting from it. He's the red dot. He's almost out the bathroom, before he remembers his shirt-dress. He turns back, and reaching it, balks at the unfettered stench cloying up the place. He's going to put the damn thing in that basket, like a good boy, cleaning up after himself. Done with his duty, he's done and not going to do anything more about. If it was bad for him, it at least wasn't as bad for Spock, and that Vulcan-statue. Because, he distinctly remembers Spock lecturing him on why Vulcan-food-tastes-better-to-Vulcans. He glances up from the padd, making sure he doesn't head-butt a wall, and turns a corner. He scratches himself, these things are really itchy. Some more walking around, and he reaches the darkened room with the confetti-star.

He pauses outside it, padd at his side, "Lights, forty percent."

The lights flick on, and he rubs at his eyes. The room is sparse, a small bad pushed up to the wall on his left, and window directly in front of him is shaded with thin curtains, blowing from thin breeze. He puts the padd down on the small mini-desk and sits on his bed. He wonders how long Kevin hid under his pa's desk, not screaming, tears streaking clean down his pale face, watched from there the shadows from outside long and quick of the guards and his ma and pa and sis and kid brother. Maybe until Amir' scuttled through seeking food.

Jim slides his hands down his face, watching water drip between his feet. It's always raining, never stops, just drips all day, brews silent and loud in the dark skies.

"Lights, out."

He slumps sideways, head bouncing on the bed, and wiggles around until he's fully on the bed lying on his side. He stops, staring at the bare wall and the curtains blowing out. The bed is soft, but its top sheet feels just like his itchy clothes. He rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling, hands loose at his side. He wonders if it rains here— of course it does, all the plants n' stuff need water, stupid question; but everything he remembers of remembering, there was never any rain, no blue days, no solitary contemplation because the rain flooded the only path out of the cave. He flops around on his other side, facing the wall, his shadow a darker smudge on the dark wall. But if it did pour rain, it wouldn't be a blue day, would it? There isn't a blue sky here, its orange-y; an orange day? Doesn't really have the weight of blue day, not the same.

He sits up; sleeping isn't coming, he's not sleepy. The room is too quiet, the bed too still, no thrumming ship to slip him to sleep. It's warm enough, he should be able to just knock off to sleep, shouldn't be fidgeting, wasting time. He scooches until his legs bend over the edge of the bad, and his feet rest on the floor. He looks from the door to the window. Sneaking out the window was very… unprofessional, or something. He's not a kid anymore; he doesn't have anyone to run-away from. He's got nice Mrs. Grayson, and Spock. He really shouldn't straddle the window sill, and inch out until his big toe steadies on the sand dusted stone. Pats his clothes, as he straightens and looks around the yard. He's in the back again, the rock garden hidden behind a low stony wall. the ground in front of doesn't look to be part of the garden, he crouches at the edge of the stone porch, and the ground isn't garden, just normal hard dirt and sand. He wants to chill somewhere, possibly pass out under the sky, but he can't— not here, where he is. His back is cold and he's uneasy, maybe if he gets a wall behind him, to lean on and study the stars. He stands and looks to his right, where a stone partition stands at an angle to Mrs. Grayson's house. Kinda like how the dead hunter's cabin's roof had huge wood beams crisscrossing everywhere, where Jim, Amir', and Kevin held breathe under a grey sky, when soldiers came. Where they learned to look for birds.

Jim settles into the corner, snuggling into it and resting his head back. The stars are just getting to their brightest, the purple of the setting sun, slowly fading, and Jim searches them for the constellations that he remembers of remembering. He spots the warrior's whip, and the maiden's fierce sehlat— realizes that no one can see these things anymore, because he wasn't fast enough to knock a drill down, let the fight distract him. Because he's always loved fights, they always distracted him, let him get lost, no concern for what happens next, what happened before. His eyes squeeze. Where he is right now— it doesn't exist, the people he's talked with, maybe they don't exist— because he couldn't do it.

He never could do it, Kevin hasn't forgiven, because Tommy lost, and Jim— he couldn't do anything. Just close eyes when the dull was permanent.

Jim cants his knees; one foot wedged in a crack, and rests his arms on his knees. Looks back up, sees the dying scholar. The Vulcan's can't even rely on their own history to find solace, teach the next generation, find a rock in the sand-storm, because even the pre-reformation's illogical stars can't be kept.

He pushes into the wall, needs anything to make him stop, just look at the sky, fall asleep— but he can't; the stars, and he spots the stalking tiger, that's-not-a-tiger, but he can't remem—

He's falling too far back; the solid wall at his back is giving. He reaches into the air, he can never reach far enough, and he's slipping sideways, past the wall, the sturdy wall.

And he's stopped. He freezes, arm still reaching, feels the hand at his shoulder.

"Tiberius?"

And he's jerking away, chest heaving, mouth gaping, scrabbling to turn.

"Don't touch me!" he gasps, holding his hands up to Spock, whose hand hovers in the air.

* * *

a/n: this exploded in my face, but i wanted to at least end where u can be sure of kirkspock at the beginning of the next chapter so u guys get 1k more words!


	4. Chapter 4

a/n: un'beta'd

**KIRK IS THE ONLY ONE DE-AGED**

* * *

"Don't touch me." he gasps, again, backing away from Spock.

Can't let Spock touch him, he's a touch telepath, he'd see things— things from Jim's past, from his future. It'd be the easiest way to fuck shit up, can't touch, no touching.

Jim takes steps back, feels his heel scrap against the edge of the porch, sees Spock's brows past his hairline.

Spock's other hand joins his first, "I will no longer attempt to violate your personal boundaries, Tiberius. If you would step away from your current position, you would find yourself on sturdier standings."

Spock drops his hands, slowly, and doesn't move.

Jim mirrors his movements, doesn't get closer to him. Spock's standing behind a low wall, the side of the house Jim leaned on is held back by his body, and a square of room is visible behind him.

"What are you doing here?" Jim says, doesn't understand.

It's night out, the suns down, its dark, normal people hit the hay past ten. And behind Spock, it's dark, the lights are out— but Spock, he's still in his clothes.

"This is my mother's residence."

Jim wants a weapon, his fingers curl at his sides, "No, not that, dammit. I mean— why you aren't asleep!"

Spock turns and does something the wall that isn't a wall, before turning back to him, "I was attempting to meditate, Tiberiu—"

"Why'd that wall open."

"It is not a wall, Tiberius."

Jim drags his fist into his hair, dropping it down to his waist band, doesn't find the phase stuffed there, he wants, "Stop—stop saying my name!"

But it's not his name, his name is Jim Kirk, but in the end, days before Starfleet decided to become the white knight to the starving damsel, he'd heard his full name— constantly, trying to dig up filthy, misguided trust, kill his trust in Kevin and Amir'.

"Very well." Jim clenches his teeth, and glares at him. It's too open, he feels cold sweat again, steps back—, "Tiberius!"

—arms pin-wheeling, because he's losing his balance his sweaty foot slipping and hitting the stone ledge— because he forgot about the damn ledge. Spock streaks out of sight, the house too, the stars bright streak in, and he's jarring flat.

The dying scholar is upside-down now. His arms rest spread out, his right foot rests still on the ledge. The poof of sand gets in his eyes and he squints against it, because he fell like an idiot, and stirred it up.

"Spock." he says, flips his hand and scrunches dirt in it.

"Yes, Tiberius." and his voice is closer than it was.

"Why is your porch so damn high."

"To impede wild sehlat achieving access to the house grounds."

Makes perfect sense, "Wild?"

"They are known to venture in proximity to the city, attracted to domesticated sehlat calls."

Jim draws his elbows close, stretches his neck to try and look over the ledge, and his foot drops. Spock is clear out of his room, standing a couple of feet from him.

"Right."

No, because what does he mean bears can just take a Sunday walk into town, but whatever. Jim figures that he's telling the truth about pet bear-saber-tooth, because he remembers of remembering when Spock had his own.

Spock nods a bit, takes a step forward, "You are uninjured?"

Jim pulls himself into sitting, "Hm? Yeah, calmed down, too."

Jim groans as he pushes to his feet, sways a bit, blood rushing in his ears. He steps up, trying to get all the dust off himself.

He reaches Spock, "I'm, uh, sorry, about that, Spock."

He glances up at him, and immediately begins walking away, because Spock is drilling a hole in him. Jim walks up to the wall-that's-not-a-wall, runs his hand down the opening.

"It is well, you were trying to mitigate your highly agitated state, in what I assume was your best way of doing so." Spock says, and whoa, he's close behind, as Jim looks back.

Not right behind him, but to the side, hands resting behind his back. Jim also thinks he was just insulted, but Spock is even less his Spock than his Spock, and he's not gonna try and figure if Spock did just insult him. Jim's sure it had something to do with silly human emotionalism, or something.

He leans further in the not-wall, and bites back a groan, his back is gonna black and blue tomorrow. Nearly sneezes when a heavy whiff of smell hits him in the face.

"W-what— why aren't you sleeping?"

He jumps back from the not-wall, squeezing his nose, trying real hard to not sneeze, because, he knows Spock would totally be offended.

"My current sleep cycle does not coincide with the time measurements of day and night; I may query after your apparent insomnia, as well." Spock says, watching him make faces, while trying not to sneeze.

His body's still on ship time, he'd be eating weird alien food with weird red cotton-candy-that-wasn't-cotton-candy-because-Uhur a-said-so, and his face would be falling off from smiling. And he wouldn't be sleeping.

"I, uh— hey, I don't have insomnia!' he says, points at Spock, glad he's done trying not to sneeze, "I just, me too— with the sleep cycle, and stuff."

Waves his hand around like it's not important, and walks away and past Spock, who turns with him so he's facing him, when he pauses and looks back at him.

"So, why'd you'd open that, uh, door?" Jim says, he has no idea what the hell it is.

"As I said, I was attempting to meditate." Spock says, and then just stops.

Jim stares at him, and Spock sort of not-twitches. Twitches like he does when there's something to say, buts not sure how it'll be received. Like when Jim asked him what happened to John Harrison. So Jim just continues staring.

Spock ticks a nod, "I was attempting to meditate, and the concept of meditation, results in either the dropping of telepathic shielding or the upholding of telepathic shielding; the differentiation of the two meditation techniques is reliant on the depth that is wished to be achieved, upon the commencement of the meditation."

"Spock," Jim says, crossing his arms, "That's called not answering the question."

"—in deference." Spock says, half turns away and gestures, "Come, there is a suitable place for discussion, where questions may be answered."

He walks past the not-wall and passes through a doorway in a wall partition that Jim hadn't seen. He really hates when Spock doesn't play nice, and he has to pry what he wants out of him. So he tags along, sighing as he goes through the door— which swooshes closed behind him. To his left is another fountain, like the one up-front, but this one is gurgling water, and spraying mist. Jim sits on its lip, arms crossing. Spock faces him, the maiden's sehlat partially obscured by his head.

"You got a lot of fountains, you know that?" Jim leans back, spray damping his back.

"Quite." Spock says, and then shrugs out of his robes, so he's only wearing a light robe, that cuts off at his elbows.

He walks to the fountain and lays the robe a short ways from Jim. Then he takes steps back from Jim.

"You were projecting thoughts, Tiberius."

The spray at his back is cold, the playful frown on lips is cold, his fingers grip his arms, and he breaks Spock's stare.

"What." he says, quiet.

Spock would never— he said he'd never do that, only when Jim gave him permission. Only when he was comfortable— only when the time called for it. Spock wouldn't—

He sees Spock's feet, bare feet, shift apart, "I was not shielding at the time. It appears our unnoticed proximity, strengthened the temporary connection."

Jim's hands are white knuckled on his knees. Breathe in, out. He never wanted Spock to see— knowing was fine, to see it, like he sees it, the undercurrent of death, fear, given up. What he did. What he didn't. Jim wants to storm up to him, pull him by the shirt, shove him; he can't, he's not how he was, he's how he was.

He looks up, with a low voice, "What did you see."

He's fine, fine. Shove everything to the back, focus now— don't go back— Jim loves poker, knew how to play before he left earth the first time— helped him lie later on, when he shouldn't've lied— forced to lie, lie to others, whose trust he should never— made to bring them out of the shadows— the safe shadows, out of the forest, out of the caves, out. Poker face all the way through. He stares at Spock with a poker face, sees the taught muscles, the sturdy stance— almost smiles. He'd never kill Spock, never try and hurt him. His hands are loose on his knees.

"I have not seen anything," Spock says, doesn't relax, still thinks Jim's gonna break, but he didn't see anythi—, "I felt."

Does Jim collapse inward, because he saw nothing, does he take in stride and continue on, because, feeling— it's almost the same. Breaking someone's trust, it eats at Jim, what would it feel like to someone who— Jim remembers of remembering, when the trust wasn't rotted through consciously, like he did, so would it feel the same?

He says 'feel', because he knows Spock does, but when he doesn't admit to feel, does it feel different, breaking trust, or is it different, more logical. More contained, controlled, won't eat.

Jim's splays his hands over his knees, poker face, still feels like smiling, no matter how fake and broken, "Easy, Spock. I'm not— never hurt you."

Jim can hear the plead in his low voice, shouldn't have to plead. Why's he pleading, What for— doesn't need. Not from Spock, who doesn't know him, shouldn't even from his Spock, who knows him.

Spock hasn't moved, still on guard, his thin robe blowing in the cool wind. It wasn't baking out anymore, he could feel the slow ache of cold seeping in, maybe past the point of goose bumps, just a steady cool.

"Spock." please.

"You have a propensity towards physical aggression, Tiberius; however, you also have my mother's trust. I will take your word on her trust."

Spock relaxes, takes one step closer, and Jim feels his smile, now, dulled by having to cheat these adults out of their life's, they trusted him, he's getting them killed— murdered, because he trusting a fucking madman. why's he trusting a madman, why'd they get caught— guards lookin' for birds, finally found them, roosting in a hunter's cabin.

Jim feels the cold dampness of his shirt, stick to his back.

"Hey, Spock.' he says, stops, watches Spock focus on him, arms settled behind his back— standing to the side of the captain's chair, and Jim's leaning on the arm rest, smirking up at him. Jim finally closes his eyes, "If you could stop something from happening, would you?"

He hears Spock, shift, sand and dirt scrubbing together under skin— because, Jim's eyes slide open, he's barefoot. Because he was meditating. Spock still hasn't answered.

Jim retakes eye contact, and Spock has his focused look, like he's considering something, but doesn't need his full attention, so his eyes aren't glazed over.

Spock takes another step closer, "You ask complex questions, for one so young; however, your wording is imprecise, and open to an abundance of speculation."

Spock's always digging, never stops.

"Would you?" Jim repeats.

He can't see Spock's face in the dark, but he does see his head tilt, and the last star of the dying scholar isn't blocked anymore.

He knows Spock wouldn't; never change something, even if for the better. Spock has his moral code, and he'd follow it. Jim has one too, but his will never be as unbroken as the will of a Vulcan— he's human, allowed to, it's what human's do.

Spock answers, "The manipulation of any specific event is dependent on the event itself. If the event is small in scale, when referencing a scale of temporal events, in order of severity; such as, an active volcano, reaching levels, of which would be considered unsafe to the near populace, there would be evacuations.

If however; as I suspect, you are referring to an event of major temporal importance, which, again, has occurred in the past, then, there would be no attempt made to change the outcome."

Can always depend on him, always sure in his decisions, and Jim smiles then, shoulders slumping, as he finally breaks eye contact. He stares at his too small hands, resting in his lap, wants to pick at his nails, still sees some red sand under them. He hears Spock come close, till he sees his bare feet, close to his bare feet.

He looks up, and, Spock, "I grieve with you, Tiberius."

Jim keeps his small smile, even as some of his relief fucks off somewhere, not here. Spock's answer, however logical, brimmed with emotion. Spock felt his— projections— and, oh, that's where his assumption of the past came from.

Wrong event, Spock, "Spock, Spock, no. It was a long ass time ago; you don't have to do that."

His Spock said sorry too, found him with a restraining hand on the lip of needy bottle. Jim never told him, what was wrong— because Jim wouldn't let anything be _wrong _with himself. But Spock still said sorry.

Jim picks up Spock's robs from the fountain, smooths a hand down the damp of them, he offers them to him.

Spock measures him again, "As you wish."

He takes the robes, and folds them over his arm.

"Thanks, Spock."

Spock eyebrows frown at him, and Jim swears he dint do anything, "What?"

"Today, you have consistently referred to me by name," Spock says, and his brows are still frowning, "Without— what is called, an honorific, in standard. We do not share a relationship characterized in this manner."

"I—" should he be sorry?, he hasn't called Spock, Mr. Spock, forever, even if he still hasn't broken Spock of calling him 'Captain' off-shift, "You want me to call you, Mr. Spock?"

And Spock's shoulders fall a little bit, "That would be most alleviating, Tiberius."

Because Spock's tensions is gone, and Jim, "Was it that uncomfortable?"

Jim's leaning forwards a bit before he realizes, watching the non-expression flounder over Spock's face.

Spock's lips pull down at the ends, "I did not mean offense, Tiberius."

"Neither did I, Mr. Spock."

Jim looks past him, up at the stars again, still bright, and full. Still diluted by a planet's atmosphere, not the clear white hot of space, only separated from him by his ship's view port. Tomorrow he needs to get access to a transporter, he knows he's gonna need to hack into the local hardware, to read up on the functioning ports of the beaming coordinates. He's been on the good apple road too long and he's rotten. The last time he hacked a beam— hijacked it, mid-beam and got shit faced in an Indian bar, was— well it was now. He's pretty sure he's getting shit faced in India right now— or about to. He frowns, he still doesn't remember that day.

"You are still troubled?"

Jim starts, because he totally forgot Spock, "Ah— no, no just trying to spot all scholar's stars."

And Spock turns, head lifting to the stars, and says something in Vulcan, before, "Which of the thirteen?"

His voice is soft, a low pull, and Jim stands up, takes a step closer, "The one that's supposed to be in the far right corner."

He sees Spock loosely cradle his hands behind his back, head still upturned, "The season is not correct for a satisfactory viewing of Xvia II."

"Really?' Jim takes another step closer, and they're side by side, dark shadows thrown darker behind them.

Jim doesn't look for Xvia II.

"Indeed, to have a ninety five percent chance of adequately viewing Xvia II, the northern hemisphere of Vulcan would have to be experiencing the Earth equivalent of autumn; currently it is the equivalent of spring. The star was aptly named."

"Named Xvia?" Jim's eyes trace the stick figure of the scholar, robes, hand outstretching for the book they're holding.

Remembers tracing the big dipper from the roof of his dad's house, before he left for rain and clouds.

"Xvia II was not the star's first known name by the Vulcan people; before Surak, it was called fate, ever-changing, impermanent." Spock turns to look at him, "The completion of the constellation's book and page turned to fate."

Jim looks back up at the dying scholar, and frowns, "So, what're they looking at if the star— fate, isn't there?"

"The absence of fate." Spock says and walks over to the door they entered through, he stops, looks back at Jim, "It is past time for your retirement, Tiberius, a discussion of pre-Surakian philosophy will wait for the morrow."

Jim rubs the back of his hand over his mouth, fighting a yawn, and musses his hair, "'m not tired, Mr. Spock."

He sees Spock's brow rise, "Of course; however, I wish to re-engage meditation, before the sun rises in approximately two hours, and as a result of your caretaker being relieved in assumption of your sleeping, your care falls to me. I cannot allow you to be unsupervised."

Jim squints at the word 'caretaker', not convinced that a nice definition like that can be attached to the Vulcan that shadowed him earlier, but he nods and walks past Spock, who follows behind. They pass Spock's room, and stop at the window to his. Spock doesn't ask why he used the window; just patiently waits for him go back in his room.

Jim does that, sits astride the sill, hands, holding his weight steady, "Hey—"

Say Mr. Spock, can't say Spock.

"Yes?"

"Thanks, Mr. Spock." he says, smiles up at him.

Spock stares at him, faint star-glow, pale on his silhouette, and he hesitates before, "May I ask clarificatio—"

"Nope." and Jim hops off the sill, spins around to face him and gives a jaunty wave, and sweeps closed the curtains.

Jim is calm, calmer than he was out in bumfuck nowhere, he's gotta handle on himself, on when he is, where he is. He'll handle his remembering when he was twelve, he will handle it, won't have them mess everything. He'll keep distracting himself, like Spock did, stargazing with him, however unintentional it was. Spock's always been good at breaking his attention and Jim smiles as he picks up the padd at the desk, flicks it on, starts searching public databases for transporter locations. He phases the pages through a rough translator, finds a couple of transporters, and codes a line of subroutine into their baseline. He sits on the bed, scrolls down his coding, adds minor release protocol to dummy the code under legitimate code, and stuff it there in a dark musty corner. The padd slips into his lap, as he pinches the bridge of his nose, and remembers why he doesn't do one night coding stands anymore. He falls sideways pulling the padd to his face and erases his history and activity signature from the padd and the local system hub.

As long as Spock gets him to a transporter, he'll be able to activate the coding and maybe not fuck up. All this beta-coding is after all, based on Scotty's mid-warp beaming— or at least the formula that sent Admiral Archer's dog to the future. Jim rounds on the pillow resting above his head and manly-ly snuggles into it, because he knows he's not gonna dream tonight.

And he sleeps.

* * *

a/n: so i had a minor writer-freak-out bc i decided to refresh my memory on this fic ( i went and tried to re-read it)- and well then i wanted to delete everything and cry. SO, if u notice a slight change or smth towards the end- thats why/also i know absolutely nothing about hacking, all i did was use big computer-y words, so i apologize to ppl who know how hacking actually works


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